


Only The Bold Deserve Favour

by seki



Category: 80 Days (Video Game 2014)
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-19 05:15:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19968622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seki/pseuds/seki
Summary: Passportout's accounts of their travels will be extensive, honest, and unsuitable for publication without heavy editing.





	Only The Bold Deserve Favour

It is some kind of delirium that compels me to set pen to paper in this fashion. What I write is unwise. Foolish. And the circumstances in which I must write afford me little privacy, sharing quarters with my valet as I must. And yet, write I must, if only to set my thoughts down in some kind of order.

The crux of the matter is that, during my recent circumnavigation of the world, I developed a deep admiration for my companion and valet, Passeportout. 

There, I have said it, or near enough. 

The truth is that I would defy anyone to have felt otherwise; certainly the man has a knack for charming even complete strangers.

And we were far from that.

The close quarters we had shared on our trip had permitted me to observe the prosaic details of matters I might not have witnessed otherwise. I had watched, with curiosity I could barely disguise, his skill at matters such as pressing my garments -- and had discovered how soothing it was to watch creases and wrinkles being smoothed away beneath his careful hand. I had watched him prepare tea, polish my shoes, and perform a thousand little domestic chores, all of which would be nigh-invisible to me back in London.

And so, indeed, proved to be the case. On our return to London, Passeportout did what any admirable and respectable valet would have done, and returned those chores to their proper place out of my sight. We still conversed; he still shaved me and dressed me and so forth. 

It felt distanced. As should be appropriate. It was a surprise to realise that I missed our former enforced intimacy. It was hardly as if I could request he began to perform all his duties in my immediate presence, however.

The press took a long time to lose interest in our voyage. Passeportout's natural charm and willingness to oblige his superiors and my own lack of interest in recounting the same tales over and over meant that he soon became the target of all such enquiries. Even before we had arrived home, he had begun to set down some details of the journeys we had made. I think he had had little intent of publicising them, but when asked for a third or fourth time for a fuller account of the journey it began to dawn on him that perhaps it might be an option for him. He asked, rather cautiously, if I would mind the full account being published.

I am not a vain man, and I did not doubt his discretion, but I did ask for permission to review his account before he sent it to an editor. And so, some weeks later, Passeportout pressed upon me with shaking hands his entire manuscript.

"It is," he said, his eyes not quite meeting mine, "a very complete account."

"Splendid, splendid," I said, my eyes drifting to the top line automatically.

_My master returned from the Reform Club that evening, a strange glint in his eye--_

"Monsieur Fogg," Passeportout continued, a strange edge to his voice, "I will not publish this as it stands, I assure you. But I felt you should see it, in the whole."

I inspected his face, unsettled, but my valet has an aptitude for concealing his true feelings, and I could read no clue in his expression. "I quite understand," I said. "I will read it whenever I have the leisure to do so."

"Monsieur."

Rather afire with curiosity, I began reading it that very day.

I found myself surprised; not perhaps by the facility and fluidity with which the tale was presented -- from a man whose skill with the spoken word had been a firm asset on our travels, I expected little else -- but by the content. Passeportout's account was accurate, on every account where I could vouch for such a thing, and yet he had undertaken a far richer and more thrilling journey than I could recollect despite spending so much of it in my company. His enthusiasm for foreign climes and foreign people was one I could not entirely comprehend, but it lent a merry air to his tale.

I took only the briefest of pauses when Passeportout talked of earlier days in Paris, of dancing and kissing dark-eyed youths by the Seine. A slip of the pen, I assumed, nothing more.

Still, it was soon forgotten, in his retelling of our time in Alexandria, in Agra, our several adventures in the Pacific. I read his description of climbing aloft in the rigging at Acapulco with especial interest; his courage in volunteering had impressed me greatly. I had watched his climb with admiration and--

Well. Perhaps more than admiration.

Passeportout had laughed, he said, up there high in the rigging, laughed at the sheer joy of being alive; I can scarcely imagine him being so uncontrolled, but I have little reason to doubt that he did so. I set the manuscript aside there, that evening, and let the man himself attend to my usual nightly needs as usual as I tried to recall how he had looked on his return to the deck. Fiercely triumphant, I had thought at the time. It was hard to reconcile the expression with the placid man who brought me my evening tisane and then bowed politely before allowing me to retire.

The very next day I read his recounting of our time in New Orleans, and had to add another layer to my perception of my valet entirely when reading of his time with the costumed man who called himself Octave. 

I was not startled that he had been approached so boldly; Americans seemed quite capable of ignoring all social norms when it pleased them. I was, however, surprised by how swiftly Passeportout had reciprocated, and how willingly he had fallen into what could never have been more than the briefest of affairs.

Was it truly that… that _straightforward_ for him?

I had met men who preferred men before; England does not lack for them, and in certain circles it is not regarded as a black mark against one's character. But one is not expected to discuss it openly; one is obliged to be circumspect. One might acknowledge it discreetly, might take men to one's bed, even live in permanent batchelorhood and have others say that one had little time for women. But to be able to kiss another man on the street, to admit to having been intimate in an account designed for public consumption--

Or was this one of the matters that Passeportout had alluded to, when he had said he could not publish it as it stood?

I confess, I gnawed on the thought for a few days, before I felt able to take up the thread of his tale again.

Passeportout's description of our arrival back in London brought a genuine smile to my lips; we had arrived with two full days to spare, and my valet had indeed acted as though we had mere minutes before the wager would be lost. I had been charmed, nay, delighted by his enthusiasm, and when he had seized my hand in congratulations I had returned his grip with equal warmth, and had spoken of how excellent a companion he had been on my journey.

 ~~Even then, I had--but no~~.

Reading the manuscript had only made me aware of how much I had missed out on; had I seen my valet as he had been in my absence, I fear I might have--

Well.

I made a brief list of minor corrections; Passeportout had mangled a few names here and there in a distinctly gallic fashion. I added that perhaps it would be wise to be to temper some of the more critical remarks he had made about regimes we had encountered; his criticisms were well-founded, but a little too inflammatory for publication.

I returned his manuscript to him, the next day in my drawing room, along with my list of corrections. He did not even glance down at the list, his face composed as he thanked me for taking the time to read.

"Passeportout," I said, and faltered. How did one begin to say-- "You write very well, and I thank you for allowing me to see the unexpurgated version."

"Monsieur," he said, and swallowed suddenly. "You're welcome."

"You are very deft," I continued, and forced out a chuckle. "I fear you have written a bestseller; publishers will be brawling for the rights."

Passeportout smiled, as if my words had been nothing but polite flattery.

I retreated, a little, taking my usual seat near the fire. Passeportout set the manuscript down on a side table, sparing only the briefest of moments to square the edges so the stack of papers sat neatly. He moved towards the decanters, intending to pour me a glass, I thought.

I cleared my throat, and saw the tension spring briefly into his shoulders before he turned around and granted me a polite, enquiring expression.

"Monsieur?"

"You make travel sound very appealing, I must say. Even I nearly wished to set out on another such trip."

He shook his head slightly, and began to pour me a whisky. "Monsieur, I hope I also gave a true reckoning of the perils of travel, and of how uncomfortable it can be."

I nodded, and fell silent until he brought me my glass. Sensing, I assume, that I did not wish to conclude the conversation quite yet, Passeportout began meticulously re-arranging the decanters of drink.

He had shown me a great deal of trust, I considered. The behaviour of one's valet reflects upon one's self, whether for good or worse, and certainly there were details beyond his proclivities that might have made some employers feel rather dismayed. His wit could be reframed as cheek; his courage as foolhardiness; his entire honest recounting as fanciful embroiderings.

Two glasses of whisky loosened my tongue a little, as he found a thousand small tasks to occupy himself around me, and I ventured further comment. "I would think no less of you, were you to publish that account in its entirety."

Passeportout had been refolding the bar towel for a third time, and he hesitated only a moment before inclining his head a touch and smiling. "My thanks, Monsieur."

I retired to bed soon after, and slept uncertainly.

His story found a publisher; a weekly periodical serialised the whole tale, and I read each installment from the comfort of my regular chair at the Reform Club. It led to some ribbing, of course, but nothing ill-natured -- I had, after all, won my bet. And I scoured each installment for the words that had set themselves so distinctly in my memory. No mention of youths on the Seine. A full account of his time in the rigging. Some accounting of his time walking New Orleans, but nothing of Octave.

And the account ended, as it had before, with our return to the Reform Club, our victory, our handshake.

I folded the paper neatly, and set it on the small table nearby, and considered.

What had I hoped for? That he would have added an epilogue on how content he was now, back to his rightful place as my valet? Or that he would confess his longing for the intimacies of travelling together, the same pull that I felt?

I drank too heavily that night, and was a disgrace when Passeportout welcomed me back into my home. I barely remember what I said to him.

The next morning I awoke in my bed. The only evidence of my excess the night before was the pounding in my head and the dryness in my mouth. I reached for the usual glass of water on my nightstand, but it was absent. Strange. The jug on my nightstand had water, however. And with my thirst quenched, I became aware that some of the thudding I had mistaken for my own hangover was of a more external nature.

I donned my robe, shuffled into my slippers, and made my way downstairs. 

The hallway had, to my surprise, several trunks and suitcases stacked against the wall. The front door stood open, and as I watched a carriage drew up outside.

What on earth--

Passportout walked out of the study, dressed in his best wool suit, and paused when he saw me. "Monsieur," he said. "As you instructed. All packed. The cab can leave once the luggage is loaded."

All packed? Ready to leave?

Had I… told him to quit my employ? I had thought of it before. Perhaps in my cups I had revisited the thought, turned him out, drunk and embarrassed and aching with shameful desire.

I looked at him, and then at the luggage, and out of the door.

Passportout's recent writing had earned him a tidy sum. Enough to have several fine suits. Enough that, if he were to be leaving, he could afford to do so in a fine carriage of the sort that waited outside. Enough that he might have amassed enough possessions to fill all these trunks and cases, had he been spending profligately whenever he was out of the house.

Still. I let myself pause, in the hope that my instructions had been foolish in a different direction.

"Hopefully I've thought of most eventualities." He smiled at me. "Now you're awake, Monsieur, perhaps you'd like me to dress you appropriately for our trip. The porters can load the bags."

A sensation I was ill-accustomed to bubbled up through me. "Remind me. Did we set ourselves an initial destination?"

"Liverpool, for the docks."

West, then. Perhaps to circumnavigate the globe backwards. Or perhaps I had merely wanted to take _us_ backwards, to find a place where Passpartout might once again consent to be kissed in the street, if a man were bold enough to do so.

I had a long journey at sea ahead, in which to gather my courage. I hoped I would find it in good time.

"Yes, indeed," I said, and raised my chin. "I'd say we can have me dressed and out of the door within the hour."

"As you wish."

I should have been mortified that we were undertaking another journey. Absenting myself from London twice in so short a time was nothing short of an absurdity. It would mean long weeks of my life given over to travel through climes both pleasant and inhospitable. The dreadful prospect of forced company with people I might not enjoy conversing with, as had happened so often. Possible danger to life and limb. Savages and brutes and fanatics around every corner.

But I considered Passportout. l remembered watching him fold linen, and pour tea, and charm strangers. Laughing into the teeth of the storm, high in the rigging.

Perhaps it is by no means useless to travel, if a man wants to see something new. Or even if one merely wants to see change in oneself.

"Come then," I said, impatiently, and turned. "Our carriage awaits."

**Author's Note:**

> This was mostly written in 2015 and then set aside, but I dusted it off and I hope it'll please someone out there.


End file.
